


We Are Bruised but We Are Meant to Be

by lalalyds2



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: F/F, but is still good, i will ship this till the day i die, seriously fam they would be so good for each other, the ship no one knows about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 16:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13768116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalalyds2/pseuds/lalalyds2
Summary: I needed a Jenny/Lettie from The Greatest Showman fic in my life. This story follows them throughout the movie through Lettie's perspective. Apologies in advance; one does what one must for the ships they adore.





	We Are Bruised but We Are Meant to Be

**Author's Note:**

> So. I'm not sure what this is. All I know is that I desperately needed some Jenny/Lettie in my life, and since I couldn't find any stories about them, I had to make one of my own. :3 I haven't written a full-blown fanfic for at least a year, so please bear with me.  
> Please let me know if you enjoyed it (I need more people to ship with this me dammit! ;p), and thank you so much for reading it!
> 
> Enjoy

So much can shatter in the simple closing of a door.

It closes with a bang on Lettie’s face, and the message is devastating.

_We don’t want you here_.

It’s a message she’s heard many times in her life. It’s been starting to hurt less, but that rejection had come from strangers, not the man who’d told her the world was going to love her, who’d just turned and said it to someone  _else_ , who’d told her she was beautiful.

So, he hadn’t meant it after all.

As she turns, staring back at the gazes of her makeshift family, she realizes this—his changing opinion doesn’t matter.

They matter. They are enough. And not because  _he_ says so, but because  _they_  say so.

They deserve to be loved. They’ve always deserved it, only now they aren’t going to apologize for wanting it.

They walk back home, united and proud and triumphant.

They are a family of misfits, they are together, and they are worth it.

As Lettie sings the last cadences of her truth to the audience, shining and victorious, watching as the audience sings back to her, she catches a flash of red hair and eyes the color of the sea staring at her.

Jenny Lind. The Swedish Nightingale.

She’s still supposed to be basking in her performance’s after party, but she’s here.

Staring at Lettie.

And there’s  _wonder_  in her gaze, the same glistening in her eyes that Lettie had felt only a few hours ago.

Too much had happened in that time, and she’s still not sure who to blame, but the awe emanating from Jenny’s being helps salve the sting.

It reminds Lettie why she’s singing in the first place.

She deserves this. She knows it, Jenny’s never-blinking stare says it too, so she stands a little straighter, sings a little louder.

And she basks in the audience’s applause.

This is her moment, and she’s going to enjoy it as long as she can.

It’s hers.

~*~

Her family celebrates after the show. It has been a long evening, a  _rough_ evening, but they’ve made it through together.

Jenny is waiting for them at the door, a crate full of what looks like the champagne from earlier that night in a cart next to her.

Her hands are clasped demurely in front of her, clothed in a simple (and more expensive than anything Lettie could afford) dress, her hair still immaculate and dancing in the candlelight—but it’s her eyes that draw Lettie in and out of the safety of her family’s cluster.

Jenny’s eyes are alight with… excitement, as shiny and star struck as a child’s. Just like every other fan, the first time they experience the show.

It gives Lettie confidence, courage to approach her, enough to talk to her.

“I thought you had a wealthier crowd to impress.”

Tom beats her to confront Jenny first. The delicate woman—delicate in a way that makes Lettie practically ache in envy—laughs, tinkling and charming in a practiced, if slightly nervous, ease.

“I wanted to impress  _this_  crowd more.”

“Is that alcohol?” He asks, pointing to the crate, she nods, pauses, and looks back with a chagrined little smile.

“It is, but it seems I’ve forgotten to bring glasses.”

Lettie steps in before Jenny can so much as blush.

“I’m impressed, and I claim a whole bottle!”

A beat of baited breath, then cheers.

The crate is opened, Phillip is going to get mad the next morning at all the champagne and corks on the floor (or sorry he  _missed_  it), and camaraderie ensues.

~*~

Hours of bubbly drinks and shared jokes later, and Lettie notices Jenny again.

Despite the beginning awkwardness of distrust (and slight bitterness), they’d all found themselves warming to the Swedish songbird.

Though repressed, her enthusiasm and excitement for them and what they do is encouraging—not  _all_  high-brow people are immune to their magic, so it seems—and she is simply so earnest.

And she is truly happy to be here with them.

Plus, she’s brought enough alcohol to lower anyone’s guard.

Within a few gulps, most everyone is willing to show her the ropes—for Anne and W.D., quite literally—and she loosens around them too.

Lettie is happier to stay on the sidelines, drink in the presence of her family, as well the sweet beverage, and watch them all. Like a diligent guardian, or a contented mother cat.

Occasionally, she’ll catch the redhead staring back at her. For a reason she can’t quite guess, the holding gazes always linger.

She’s always just about to figure out why that is, when suddenly something snaps and they go back to what they were doing.

Currently, Imelda, her blindingly white hair falling from its messy bun, is showing Jenny one of their dances.

Though the singer is undeniably graceful, she is also undeniably  _hopeless_ at learning the jaunty steps Imelda is demonstrating.

But she’s laughing, and so is Imelda, and Lettie is noticing it all.

When Jenny finally admits defeat, and sits down on a trunk, most of the others making their good nights and heading out or to bed, Lettie walks over, handing her an open bottle. Jenny takes it gratefully, taking a sip.

The bubbles currently reddening Lettie’s cheeks also allow her to roll her eyes. Even something as mundane as drinking from a bottle, and this woman can make it look elegant.

Lettie’s not sure if she wants to throttle her for it, or… do something else, something she’s not sure about at all. It’s a confusing thought that races too quickly in her mind for her to analyze it, so she simply asks a question that’s been bothering her.

“Why are you here?”

At Jenny’s look of surprise, and just a touch of hurt, Lettie’s cheeks go a shade redder than the champagne can take credit for.

“Not that I’m complaining, I’m just… Curious.”

Jenny takes another sip and hums. It’s lower than her crystalline soprano, and Lettie suppresses a shiver as the sound zips along her spine.

Maybe she’s had a bit too much to drink.

“I wanted to see your show before I left.” Is her simple reply. But there’s more to it than that, Lettie can tell.

“So, you left your own party,” she says, voice filled to the brim with skepticism. “The one inviting you to America and congratulating you on your resounding success for your very first performance here, to see a show you could see any other time?”

“I didn’t have any other time!” Jenny protests weakly, her cheeks pinkening a flush to match Lettie’s.

Lettie’s reply is simply a raised brow.

“Fine,” she relents. “I didn’t want to socialize there anymore. It’s just a little too much, and… well, you got to see me perform but I didn’t get to see you, you didn’t join the party, and I was dying to meet you.” A pause. “I wanted to meet  _all_ of you.”

Lettie doesn’t understand what that correction means, so she simply sits next to her, the silks of their dresses rustling against to each other as she shifts to get comfortable.

“Why  _didn’t_ you join the party?” Jenny asks, Lettie’s gaze drops. “I’m sure I heard you at the door, but you never arrived.”

“Barnum… didn’t want us there. We were distracting, and loud, and… no longer who he was proud of.”

Thin hands grasp at hers, and she clings to them tighter than she thought she would. They are warm and soft and comforting, but then she remembers how hers are rough from past days of washing clothes and current days of helping with ropes, and she drops them in an instant. Jenny’s expression drops similarly.

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that, I didn’t know, I would have— “

“It’s not your fault,” Lettie says, drawing a deep breath, reminding herself what she’s saying is  _true_.

“I would have  _done_ something.” She insists, gently touching Lettie’s knee.

It’s… nice. Lettie decides to ignore it and focuses back on Jenny and her ridiculously sea-blue gaze.

“What could you have done?”

“I could have… I could have left earlier.”

Lettie chuckles.

“I don’t think Barnum would have liked that… or your many admirers.”

Jenny’s lips pull into a moue, and Lettie’s brows go up.

“What?”

“I appreciate their admiration, very much so, but it’s a… bit much, face to face. A full audience, I’m comfortable. A room full of people wanting to chat, I just don’t…”

She drifts off, her features wrinkling, and Lettie puts her hand over the pale one still resting on her leg. She was so carefree a few moments ago. Lettie’s desperate to bring that back.

“So, you, the song bird and social butterfly ran to the circus? Compared to your nightingale, we’re like… pelicans.”

Jenny laughs, surprised amusement ringing out in bells, before she halts, embarrassment coloring her cheeks again.

“It’s ok, you can laugh,” Lettie coaxes. “If I can’t have your looks, at least give me my humor.”

Jenny truly pauses at that, words clearly rolling around in her head before she says her next words carefully.

“Lettie…I think you’re beautiful.”

It stuns her. No one’s said that in a long time, no one but Barnum, and he’d just wanted something. And he hadn’t meant it the way Jenny seems to right in this moment.

She’s speechless, gaping like a fish for what feels like forever. And then, all she says is—

“You don’t mean that.”

Jenny nods her head slowly, deliberately.

“I do. You caught my eye that day I met Barnum, and you caught it again tonight from the audience. And during your performance, I couldn’t  _stop_ staring. You were glorious. You  _are_. Your voice is stunning, it’s powerful, and…” She blushes, a full sunset of sustained reds as she realizes just how much she’s revealed.

“…and I just thought you should know.” She finishes lamely, sheepishly looking down, gently tugging her hands away to tuck them under her skirts.

Lettie takes a deep breath, trying to process all that’s happening.

No. It’s still too new and crazy.

But there’s a warmth in her chest, a quickly growing  _something_  for this woman, and it’s exciting.

She tends not to believe it when people compliment her, her heart is too old and too wise for pretty, empty words.

She believes Jenny.

The woman is too talented to feel the need to lie, and her eyes are too wide to ignore.

She’s still not sure how to proceed, but something bold and brave and scary is blooming inside her mind.

“Jenny,” she asks gently. “Are you drunk?”

The redhead shakes her head slightly, a rueful laugh on her lips.

“Not as much as I should be, or would like to be.”

“Good.”

Lettie tentatively, oh so tentatively, lifts her hands to cup Jenny’s face, a thumb tracing the curve of her jaw.

Hesitation. Gazes darken. They start leaning.

“What are we doing?” Jenny murmurs, whispers to the lips coming ever closer, centimeter by centimeter.

“Let’s find out.”

She kisses her.

It’s unsure and warm and soft. So gentle. So different from anything she’s experienced before.

Lettie can’t open her eyes just yet. In the back of her mind, she’s waiting for the recoil, the disgust, the leaving.

Jenny does none of those things.

Instead, she pulls away a fraction of an inch, her small hands reaching out to clasp around Lettie’s neck, and then heat is traveling from those hands, spreading all throughout her body till she’s tingling pleasantly and wondering how so much satisfaction and longing can come from one simple action.

“That was…” Jenny breathes. Dread creeps its way into Lettie’s mind.

“Good? Bad? Weird?”

Jenny’s eyes open, stars above a glistening sea twinkle in her gaze, and Lettie feels as though she may drown.

She won’t mind.

“That was sensational.”

Relief floods her, along with something new and delicious.

“Do it again?”

They do.

~*~

Lettie wakes with a pounding head, and a dizzy heart. She sits up slowly, the room tilting slightly, and looks around.

Nothing is different, except her.

But perhaps—perhaps last night hadn’t been real. Perhaps it’d been a crazy, fantastic dream fueled by alcohol and wishful thinking.

She finds a letter on the floor addressed to her. Trembling hands open it slowly, she imagines a hard goodbye, a tearful accusation, a charge against her.

Instead, she finds a long-written note, poetic and honest, and an address for where Jenny will be next.

Lettie laughs, loud and relieved and excited.

She gets a new paper, and begins to write.

~*~

Every week without fail, she gets a new letter. She looks forward to it more than she’d admit, perking up any time the mailman comes, sagging when he’s only got statements from the bank.

Everyone starts to notice.

She can’t help it.

Imelda once catches a glimpse of what’s stolen Lettie’s attention, raises her pale brows at the name, but says nothing.

Lettie’s not sure she’s grateful or disappointed. That’s the catch of having a secret, she can’t tell it to anyone else. But sometimes, she wants to shout it from the rooftops.

Something stronger than a schoolgirl crush has taken up residence in her chest, growing warmer and warmer every time she reads Jenny’s words.

Like the songstress herself, the letters are soft, a gentle retelling of the stories traveling creates, with bits of Jenny’s past and person sprinkled within it. Never very showy, each tidbit seems like a surprise, an unexpected reveal Jenny hadn’t necessarily meant to tell her, but finds she doesn’t mind Lettie knowing.

It inexplicably fills her with pride.

In return, she lets Jenny in too, writing about the day-to-day ordeals of the circus, even hinting to sides of her past she’s never told  _anyone_  before. Each reveal is a step, for both of them, and they take it as well as they can.

Apart, but together.

Against Jenny’s description of the many places she’s visiting, Lettie feels infinitely boring.

To that, Jenny responds in gentle chastisement, wishing she could stop that ridiculous thought with a kiss.

It’s the first time she’s finally mentioned that night. It feels like a line she’s edging, unsure how to pass through.

Like all things, Lettie blazes past, false bravado and confidence coloring her words as she replies in a cheeky, if a bit  _suggestive_ , fashion.

The “ _Leticia Grace Lutz_ ” italicized like a blush across the page is her reward.

She laughs, uncaring that the curious eyes of her family are staring at her, and she wishes (not for the first time, and definitely not the last) that this absurdly long tour ends soon.

This tentative, unnamed thing is wonderful and tantalizing and torturous, and she wants more.

She’s realized you can still miss someone you’ve only spoken to once.

It’s not quite enough. She wants more.

She won’t say it yet, but she’s fairly certain.

Together, she and Jenny could be extraordinary.

~*~

Time passes on.

Cheering faces are starting to be replaced by angry ones, Lettie’s little family is tired, and Jenny’s letters are getting few and far between.

They are both busier. They are both lonelier.

More time passes.

When Jenny writes that she misses her, Lettie laughs.

Not the happy, moonstruck laugh she usually gives in celebration at Jenny’s affection, this laugh is tired and bitter.

Every day for her is an onslaught of insults and shouting, not the cascading applause and flowers Jenny  _must_ be receiving. On days like this, it feels impossible to be missed.

So instead of writing what she means— _I miss you too_ —she writes something horrible.  _Nothing_.

She doesn’t write back at all.

It’s a surprise when she gets another letter, much, much later. It’s short, and for once, it feels like a goodbye.

“Lettie,

I’ve done something terrible.

I’m  _so_  sorry.

Jenny”

She doesn’t know what it means, but it feels shattering.

And then the riot starts, fire in her chest, raging through her fists, cracking in her ribs from a monster in man’s clothing, and then true fire.

Burning in her lungs, burning up Jenny’s apology, burning up Lettie’s home.

World fragmenting, ash falling, her soul is on fire.

It’s over.  

~*~

“JENNY LIND QUITS THE TOUR! BARNUM SCANDAL!”

It’s every headline, on every newspaper. Lettie can’t escape it. When Imelda sees it, she gives Lettie a sympathetic smile, but it doesn’t soothe the ache deep inside her bones.

Nothing does.

She allows herself a few full days of mourning for all she has lost before she kicks herself back in gear. She may be hurting, but so is the rest of her family, and they need to go back home.  

So she tugs up her bootstraps, finds Barnum, pushes down the personal hurts he doesn’t know he’s caused, and drags him back into the light.   
After all, he was the first one to bring her into it, it’s only right she does the same for him.  

He finds his way back to Charity; they find their way through the rubble.  

It’s not home yet, but it’s getting there.

She still feels as though something is missing.  

~*~

Jenny’s back in New York. Tying up loose ends.  

She’s not welcome at the circus anymore.  Lettie still finds a letter resting on her dressing gown after a show. It’s long. An apology.  

She reads it once, twice, once more.  

Against her better judgement, she meets Jenny later.  

The woman is practically in tears the minute Lettie steps into the bar, eyes glistening and just so  _damn fragile_ … Lettie’s walls start crumbling before the songbird even gets a word out.

“Lettie, I—”

“I read your letter.” She interrupts.  If she doesn’t speak now, she won’t speak at all.  

Jenny gulps, both despair and hope dripping within her gaze, trembling hands gripping the bar table tightly as she tries to reign in her emotions.

“And?”

A deep sigh.

“The past can’t change.”

“But… the future?”

If Jenny leans any farther forward, she’s going to fall off the seat.  Lettie can’t help but move closer.  Everything is still fresh and it  _hurts_  and she’s not sure she wants to forgive her yet, but she can’t bring herself to hurt her either. She’s frozen in place, and she doesn’t know if she’ll ever thaw out again.    

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

The soprano nods, bowing her head, red curls shivering as she fiercely swipes at her cheeks. Lettie’s heart aches.  

“Just… why?” It’s all she can ask.  

“I don’t know either. Loneliness was eating at me, picking away at my spirit until that hole I’ve always felt threatened to consume me, and I reached out in any way I could, for…  _something_.”   She shrugs helplessly.  “Instead, I got rejected. Twice. And I got selfish.”

“You were a little more than that.”

Lettie’s not trying to be cruel, she really isn’t, but her wounds are still gaping. She can’t ignore them while  _she’s_  sitting before her, ethereal and seemingly perfect even in her cracked composure. Jenny lets it break, lets her tears fall swiftly, silently, finally stopping any effort to hold them back.  

“I know. I’m  _sorry_.”  

Lettie shakes her head, pressure in her tear ducts, she looks to the ceiling, not daring to stare at the singer before her again.  

Because despite everything, every damn thing, she still wants her.  

“I could’ve… I could’ve  _loved_  you.”

Jenny’s head whips up quickly, a gasp parting her rose lips.  

“You could have?”

Lettie’s heart whimpers.

“Yeah.”  

As simply as that, she turns, and leaves.  

Half an hour later, Lettie’s mind swirling with everything she’s learned, everything she knows, a decision she’s still not sure of—she returns to the bar.  

Jenny isn’t there anymore.

She’s gone.

Lettie sits down, and proceeds to drink herself into oblivion.  

~*~

“You know, it wasn’t too long ago, I was in this very seat.” Barnum’s voice breaks through the haze of her muddled thoughts.  She doesn’t speak as he settles next to her, choosing instead to take another swig of beer. The carbonation reminds her of another fizzy drink with another performer, but she is quick to shake it from her head.  

They sit in silence, until—

“It’s a shame about Jenny.”

Lettie sobers in an instant. She looks at Phineas, question heavy in her eyes. He at least has the decency to look sheepish.

“Imelda guessed and told me.”

“It’s none of your business.”  

She’s short with him, she can’t help it.  He’s the  _last_  person she wants to talk with about Jenny.

“Maybe, but she once said I make people my business, and when I’m careless, I bring ruin to them and myself.  I used to think _I_ was the only one she meant it for, my rejection enough to earn that extreme kind of backlash. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Perhaps he’s the best person to talk to about her.  

“I’m angry with you. For a lot of reasons.” She finally says, he hums, and waits for her to continue.

“I’m angry with her too. And… I’m angry with myself.  I  _knew_ it wouldn’t be easy, it never has been, but I guess, I didn’t know it could ever be this  ** _hard_**.”

He gently puts a hand on her shoulder, and she lets him.  

“You know, Charity and I have loved each other for most of our lives.”

Lettie nods, hastily swiping away the vulnerability dancing on her lashes.  

“It was so easy to love her, I took it for granted. And then it got hard. But it never  _stopped_. Even now. It doesn’t simply stop.”

“I want it to.” She says hollowly.  

“That would be easier, wouldn’t it? But you’d be missing out on a future filled with potential.”  

“Why are you doing this?” Lettie whispers, completely mystified why Barnum wants her to go after Jenny Lind, the woman who’d nearly ruined him.

“Because…  You’re my family, and family tries their best to make their loved ones happy. And if anyone deserves happiness, Lettie, it’s you.”

She hugs him tightly, and his words seep into her like the warmth of his embrace.  

It solidifies the idea she’s been toying with, even during her drunken daydreams.

She waits till she’s sober, and hesitantly begins.

She writes a letter.  

~*~

She’s waiting on the docks when Jenny steps back on New York soil.  Decked in dark blue and a tiny, hopeful smile, she is radiant.  

Something pangs in Lettie’s heart, but it’s good, she thinks.  

It’s good.  


End file.
